The great prance-a-thon

And now, the thrilling conclusion to our serialisation of the smash local novel The Dragon Cyah Prance.” (Available at your nearest book-store or the stock room of St Ann’s Psychiatric Hospital).

CHAPTER LAST

Fasdae Fandae saw himself as the Grand Dragon-tamer! He who would lead his people out of bondage from the canefields of central to the promised northern land of Trinitaria, which overflowed with sno-cone and noni-juice.  He who with a wave of his trusted and ever full bottle of puncheon (used of course, for sapping the head and knee joints) would part the waters of the polluted River Karoni for his people to march triumphantly towards Port-ah-Spain.

He dreamt daily of taming the dreaded, rabid dragon called Pattricke and liberating his people. Fasdae saw himself ordering the obstinate dragon: “Let my people go!” Fasdae fantasised the dragon shouting: “No!” and he, the sly fox, stretching forth his puncheon into Pattricke’s cup which runneth over, and Pattricke later drinking the tainted water and getting a good purge. He dreamt yet still of causing a swarm of sugar cane locusts to wreak havoc in the den of the dragon, until Pattricke ran out screaming and setting Fasdae’s people free. The fox’s dreams and ego were fed by his cohorts from the house of the never setting sun, otherwise known as the Unbelievably Narcissistic Country — bookies.

He was indeed a sly fox who was the master of cane juice, yellow garlands and exotic words such as “neemakaram” and “that’s insulting!”
Fasdae, Lord Ruler of Karoni, overwhelmed with the aroma of puncheon and babash, was bowled over by a brilliant idea. “I know how egotistic that damn dragon is. Why not challenge him to a prance-a-thon and the first to fall exhausted, loses,” he thought.
Of course Pattricke with his weak pacemaker-assisted heart and penchant for placing not one but both claws in his mouth, is sure to fall first, Fasdae was certain.

So he telephoned dragon Pattricke and issued the challenge. “Pattricke, I hear you telling town you is the dragon and you could prance anywhere you feel. Well I challenge you to a prance-a-thon you big show off. Yuh think you could handle meh?” Fasdae asked. “Who you feel you is Fas? I am a dragon and I am the One Anointed by Yahweh. We go do this thing in Woodenfoot Square next Friday. Bring all you got and be prepared to fall to Yahweh’s Chosen,” dragon Pattricke roared, his chest swelling in rage, smoke spewing from his flared nostrils. Not liking the sly fox’s laughter, Pattricke stated: “Be warned old man, ye of the grey hair and thin foot. Take heed for Yahweh has just spoken to me.”

“And this is what he said, ‘Oh fox of iniquity, dare not test my dragon whom I put to be ruler of men, corporations and the Judiciary...Oh grey one of spindly arms and wrinkled face, thou has transgressed me and my dragon shall smite ye and send you back to Karoni. The day of reckoning is nigh.”
“Ha!” Fasdae cried. “You think you or Yahweh could frighten me with allyuh gun talk? Come better dan that old chap,” Fasdae said dismissively. Pretty soon, word of the impending clash flew far and wide throughout the land. People prepared their pelau, callalloo, roti and punches in preparation for the showdown. On the fateful day, Woodenfoot Square was packed to capacity, with Trinitarians coming out in droves with their tamboo-bamboo, steelpans and tassa.

Dragon Pattricke’s appointed minions were present on one end of a dusty square ring, throwing harsh words to the wily silver fox’s supporters who took up the other end and reciprocated with loud cussing. Kelwin Prabnath growled and spat vituperations at Heath Browley, while Kamala Wassad-Bissembhar hissed at Mabel Channing — dragon Pattricke’s breakfasses-making other half. The atmosphere was ripe with malevolence. And then, the strains of the song “Rum Til I Die” started up, heralding the arrival of the silver fox, dressed in his war outfit — a loose short pants and tight fitting vest. His bony frame begged to be covered, but he seemed not to notice.

And then, with a sea of white doves flying overhead and the strains of the “Angelus Dominii” and “Yahweh is the Best Way,” Pattricke the dragon jumped into the ring. After a brief prayer by ArchHolyMan Edgar Wilbert-Ramdeen, the battle started. Egged on by the partisan crowds, Fasdae and dragon Pattricke started a wild, macabre prance in the ring. Snarling at each other as the tempo increased, both dragon and silver fox continued the mad prance. As time stood still, Fasdae sapped his head with puncheon as fatigue set in. The dragon was not doing too well either and could be seen pawing his chest to ensure the pacemaker was still in place. The dragon was also breathing in a hoarse manner.

Without warning, the skies opened up and The Hand stretched downwards causing both dragon and fox to stop their mad prance. “Ah ha. I knew it! Yahweh has come to my assistance,” Pattricke thought triumphantly. The Hand from heaven swiftly struck both dragon Pattricke and Fasdae some solid, stinging  calpets and they both fell to the ground at the same time, dazed and confused. “Yahweh, why hast thou forsaken me?” Pattricke cried. “Oh Father forgive me for all the puncheon I drank and for throwing away Yoma’s bad tasting allo choka when she was not looking,” Fasdae prayed.

As quickly as The Hand dished out punishment, so too did it retreat back to the Heavens. The people were dumbstruck. “The prance-off is declared a draw,” ArchHolyMan Wilbert-Ramdeen pontificated. “Stay there and feel so, I going to the High Court for redress and while I am at it, I will go to the Privy to relieve myself,” Fasdae shouted as he ran off. “Hold on. As Prime Dragonminister, I declare myself winner and will get Chief Prez Antwell Pritchards to declare it as law, he will do my bidding,” Pattricke cried as he flew away. And thus ended the great prance-a-thon. The people trudged away slowly, wondering why on Earth they were saddled with dotish politrickians such as a pot-fox who thought he was a royal blue-blooded mastiff and above all, a Dragon Who Cyah Prance!

THE END